The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old town into slick, black mirrors reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the gas lamps, and it was in this damp, clinging darkness that Inspector Silas Thorne stood in the doorway of the abandoned textile mill, his hand resting on the hilt of his service revolver not in threat, but in a kind...
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